


Your Embrace And My Collapse

by AceyEnn



Series: August And Everything After [3]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Cancer, F/F, Homophobia, Manipulation, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, dick squad lapis, domestic abuse, lapis and jasper are BOTH trash fuckups you can't change my mind, parental neglect, sears jasper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceyEnn/pseuds/AceyEnn
Summary: It's hard to get better when you keep standing in your own way. Lapis is intimately aware of this.(Set mostly before Pearl, Interrupted.)
Relationships: Jasper/Lapis Lazuli
Series: August And Everything After [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796716
Comments: 13
Kudos: 25





	Your Embrace And My Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> save me from fic hell pls
> 
> A few quick notes:  
> -This story contains a very graphic depiction of a suicide attempt by wrist-slitting. If you find that triggering or otherwise upsetting, you may wanna skip this one!   
> -Valerie Hall is Volleyball, just because I had some ideas for her and an excuse to use 'em.   
> -Please do not be like Lapis or Jasper because they're both awful fucking girlfriends. (Lapis' behavior in parts of this story is especially cruel and manipulative, so you've been warned.)

Your name is Lapis Paz. 

That's not your full name. Your parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided to give you the middle name Lazuli. It borders on a pun, and you’ve always despised it. 

You've despised  _ them  _ for nearly as long. Oh, sure, they keep you fed and clothed, and they spoil you with gifts, but they hardly ever bother to  _ speak  _ to you. You're just their accessory, someone who exists solely to give the image of a perfect family. The poor little rich girl.

\---

When you’re twelve, you fall ill. Very, very ill. 

You feel feverish, weak, cold. You begin to suffer from frequent nosebleeds, an issue you'd never had before, and you're short of breath, constantly dizzy and gasping. 

“I need to see a doctor,” you announce to your parents one night, as they sit watching TV. Your nose is bleeding again, and you’re desperately trying to keep it from staining your clothing.

They don't reply.

“I  _ said _ ,” you repeat, “I need to see a doctor. I'm really sick.”

It takes you two weeks to convince them to take you to the doctor, and when you test positive for leukemia, they barely react. 

They don't care. They never have. You have  _ cancer _ , you could  _ die _ , and they're still acting like you don't exist as a person. You're like a porcelain doll to them, put up to look pretty and so little else. 

The first night you spend in the hospital, you weep. You never cried much; it's not that you're never  _ sad _ (and, in fact, you usually are), it's just that you've never been comfortable with anyone seeing you cry. You feel so vulnerable, so  _ exposed _ , and above all else, paralyzed with fear.

The doctors are surprisingly nice. Attentive. You decide you like them more than you've ever liked your parents. The doctors aren't constantly fighting. They're not disregarding your needs. They don't drink copious amounts of wine and pass out on the couch, or scream at each other over money, or act like you're not even there. 

The days you're able to go home are, as it turns out, far worse. Your parents haven't started paying much more attention to you; aside from the occasional check-in regarding how you feel physically, nothing has changed at all. (They never bother to ask how you feel  _ emotionally. _ ) 

It’s strange. You almost look forward to your chemotherapy sessions, even though your hair is falling out in clumps and you can't stop vomiting, because when you’re being treated, people  _ care. _

As your disease progresses, though, you spend more and more time in the hospital. You know that's a bad sign, you  _ do _ , but…at the same time, you almost don't mind. For the first time in your whole life, you feel almost loved.

_ Almost _ . You know the doctors are just doing their jobs. They probably don't care about you as an individual. Why would they? Tons of kids get cancer. You’re not  _ special.  _ And besides, your parents--your  _ own parents _ \--have only visited you a handful of times. No one loves you, no one at all, and you're convinced deep down that if the cancer kills you, you'll go mostly unmourned.

\---

You spend your thirteenth birthday laid up in a hospital bed, battling a nasty infection, fighting for your life. The only bright spot is that one of the nurses--Nurse Valerie Hall, perhaps your favorite of them all, who insists you just call her by her first name--made you a cake, but you're too sick to your stomach to eat more than a few bites before vomiting. 

The nurse frowns, and wipes the puke from your face with a rag. It's the most physical contact you've had in ages that didn't involve being prodded by doctors. You've been touch-starved your whole life, and you didn't even realize it. 

Of course, as soon as she's done cleaning you off, she pulls away. You pout, but she doesn't seem to notice, not really. 

Normally, this nurse would ask you how you were feeling. Today, she knows better than to bother. You're always shaking now, always so cold, always struggling to draw breath, but today is undeniably the worst you've been in a while. Maybe the worst you've  _ ever  _ been. 

Of  _ course _ you'd be at death’s door on your thirteenth birthday. Of course. You shouldn't even be surprised at how much God clearly hates you by now.

You barely notice her slipping a small dolphin plushie into your arms as she sings you Happy Birthday, and you slip into unconsciousness for several days.

You wake up confused, and you're completely alone once again. 

\---

The “miracle,” as Valerie describes it, comes when you're fifteen. 

You can't remember what it was like to  _ not _ be horribly sick. It's become nearly comforting, in an odd way, and your routine at the hospital tends to be relatively predictable. And, frankly, you're discovering that you kind of love not having your parents around, even if you're pretty sure that they've more or less left you to rot. Maybe because of that, actually.

Then, one morning, Valerie wakes you excitedly. “We found a bone marrow match,” she tells you, a huge, sweet smile on her face. 

It's not a sure thing, of course. You're extremely sick, and there's always the very real chance that it won't be enough to save you. But you smile back anyway, not necessarily because you're especially happy, but because you know that's what you're  _ supposed  _ to do. 

She explains the procedure to you, her voice so cheerful and bright as always. You just nod along, barely taking it in. 

(The transplant is more or less painless, and it  _ works _ . You're declared cancer-free a few months later. 

You can't even bring yourself to celebrate.)

\---

When you're sixteen, you meet Jasper Diaz through your English class.

Jasper is a huge, intimidating mountain of a girl. You're dead average height, and she towers over you by a huge margin. Come to think of it, she towers over nearly _ everyone. _

You've felt so empty since you were discharged, so  _ lost.  _ Your parents are still who they've always been, and you haven't been able to find Valerie, perhaps the closest thing you've ever had to a real friend, anywhere online. Jasper, however, is there to fill the void.

You first begin talking over a group project. It's dumb, and you say so.

“It  _ is  _ dumb,” she growls. “How is this applicable to the real world?”

“I think the teacher just doesn't want to have to do her fucking  _ job  _ today,” you reply, crossing your arms in front of your chest and leaning back in your chair.

“She's  _ such  _ a bitch.”

“Ugh, I  _ know _ , right?” 

Thus begins your first relationship. (And your second, and your third, and so on.)

\---

You don't know why you like her, really. Jasper is a complete bitch most of the time. But she's hot, and she pays actual attention to you, and that's enough for you to cling to her, at least at first.

The first fight you have occurs a mere week into your official relationship. It’s not even about anything of any importance--Jasper’s just pissed that they're out of Combos at 7-Eleven.

“What do you  _ mean  _ you're sold out?” she roars, getting right up in the poor clerk’s face. 

“Uh...I mean just that, milady.” The clerk is a rotund young man, around your age you'd wager, with curly blond hair. He's sweating bullets.

“Don't. Fucking. Call me that.”

“S-sorry! Uh...don't kill me?”

You grab Jasper by one massive arm and pull. “Stop it, Jasper. You're making a scene.”

“Fuck you too, Lapis!” she shouts, yanking her arm away.

You're mad, extremely mad. For God’s sake, you just wanted to get a fucking Slurpee on your way home from your second real date.

“No! Fuck  _ you _ , you fucking  _ cunt _ !”

At that point you storm out, ignoring the clerk shouting that you still need to pay for the Slurpee. You don't care, you just  _ don't care. _

(The next day at school, she apologizes, and so do you, and it's like it never happened at all.)

\---

You joined the swim team as soon as you were physically able. The water’s always been soothing, and besides, it's great exercise. 

Over time, you've become something of a phenom in the pool. You're fast, you're an excellent diver, and you can stay under for longer than any of your teammates.

The upshot of this is that none of your teammates actually  _ like  _ you. Part of that is because you're better than them and they know it, but you know that your prickly personality plays a role as well. 

It's a coping skill you’ve developed. If you're enough of a bitch, people will at least notice that you exist, and negative attention is better than no attention at all. It might not be a  _ good  _ coping skill, but it's all you really have. That, and Jasper.

You'd say you don't know why you're still dating her, but that would be a lie. You know  _ exactly _ why. She makes you feel like you actually  _ exist.  _ But more than that, you increasingly feel like you  _ deserve _ each other. 

(Of course, you don't tell  _ her _ that.)

\---

Another day, another fight. 

You're in your bedroom this time, home alone with her, and you're making out pretty heavily. Her large hand dips under your top, and you shudder with pleasure. You lean in close, smirking, and begin to suck and bite at her neck. You're going to leave marks, you're fairly sure. Good. Jasper is  _ yours. _

The fight breaks out mid-coitus. She wants to do a few things that you don't want to do, and because of who you both are, you don't just politely decline. Instead, you tell her to go fuck herself with a rusty knife. 

“Prude!” she hisses. 

“Freak!” you shoot back.

“Cunt!”

“Whore!”

“Oh my fucking God, why don't you ever just let things  _ happen _ ?”

“Consent is a thing, dickwad.”

“Fine, but...God, you're such a tightass, you know that, right?”

“And  _ you  _ are the biggest bitch in the known universe. Now go away.”

“No.”

“I  _ said  _ go away!”

“I won't! How about  _ you  _ do, huh?”

“This is  _ my bedroom, _ you absolute dumbfuck.”

“Just fuck off and die!”

You stare. You've been struggling silently for so long, ever since your cancer was cured. You don't talk about it--no one would understand or care. Well, you suppose Valerie might, if you knew where she was, but you don't, so it's a moot point.

As much as your actions seem impulsive and foolish, the truth is that you've been thinking about this for a long, long time, and this is the perfect moment. She's going to regret what she's done, you're sure.

“Okay. Whatever. You can stay, okay?” You heave an exasperated sigh. “I'm gonna take a piss.”

That's not what you actually do. Instead, you head to the kitchen and grab a paring knife before heading to the bathroom. You've been planning this anyway, after all, and if your last act on this world is to upset Jasper, that's just a plus.

You draw a hot bath, strip nude, and steel yourself as you step into the tub. This is it. You have no clue how to feel--you're just numb. You've been numb for a while now. 

It's time. You're going to kill two birds with one stone.

You draw the blade down your right wrist, slicing open the tanned flesh and groaning loudly in agony. Blood begins to spurt from the wound almost immediately, and before you have the time to think it through, to decide that maybe the pain isn't worth it, you slit your other wrist as well. 

It's fascinating, watching the blood staining the water, swirling, coagulating, but it  _ hurts _ . It hurts terribly, maybe even worse than the cancer pain you spent three long years battling through. You're not scared of death, not anymore, but you wish you had picked a less painful method.

Great. So you're going to spend the last moments of your life in raw agony.

As you begin to grow lightheaded from blood loss, you look at the gash in your right wrist. You're left-handed, and so the cut on your right is far deeper, far bloodier. You stare at it, focusing on the damaged tendons, until your vision begins to fade.

\---

Jasper finds you this time, and you wake up hours later in the hospital. You hadn't really expected her to find you before you bled out, hadn't planned on it, but...she did, and now you have to pay the price.

You look down at your bandaged wrists, and it hits you that your right wrist is completely numb--there was permanent nerve and tendon damage, the doctor tells you apologetically.

“Fuck,” you grumble.

You look around the little room. Jasper’s not there; in fact, the only person present aside from you is the doctor. You vaguely recognize him--you're pretty sure he was working there when you were ill--but not well enough to truly place anything about him.

Wait.

This is the same hospital Valerie worked at. You ask the doctor if she's still working there, and his face falls.

“I'm so sorry, kid. She hasn't worked here in a while. Not since the, uh, incident.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Incident?”

He shakes his head sadly. “She got into an argument with her partner, and got a bullet to the face. She lived, but…”

“ _ But _ ?”

“It's not a good life,” he sighs. “She was basically lobotomized. I'm really not sure how she even made it to the hospital alive.”

You don't know what to say. You're not sure there's anything you  _ can  _ say. You're just in shock--she wasn't someone who deserved that, not like Jasper, not like  _ you.  _

(As it happens, you and Jasper get back together a month later. How could you not, when you're all the other has?)

\---

Two years later, during one of your countless on-again periods with Jasper, you go to a birthday party together, a sweet sixteen.

You've never known how to feel about the birthday girl--Jasper’s little cousin. (Cousin  _ by adoption _ , as Jasper is all too quick to point out.)

Amethyst is a short pudgy little thing, two years your and Jasper’s junior, loud and obnoxious. She seems to be friendly, but she's so  _ annoying. _ Too much energy, too many stupid questions. But Jasper insisted you come to her party, and so you did. You're the  _ only _ ones who did, in fact.

And of course, you end up fighting. You always fucking do, don't you? 

You throw the first punch, shattering her nose. Strangely, Jasper rarely bothers to fight back when you get violent, even though you know for a fact that she could snap you in half if she wanted to. 

This time she punches back, and hits you right in the tit, causing you to gasp in pain.

Amethyst is on the sidelines, staring in horror. “Uh...guys?” she squeaks, barely audible. “Can we, like... _ not _ ?”

You don't listen. Neither does Jasper. You just keep fighting, fucking each other up, and eventually, Amethyst quietly heads back inside. You think you can hear her crying from in there, but you're not sure, and you don't particularly care.

\---

Your second attempt comes a few months later, right after you start college.

Another breakup with Jasper. You feel empty again, hungry for her presence, her touch, and you realize that you have  _ terrible  _ taste in women, but it's not like you're much better.

You've always liked the sea. The sound of waves crashing on the shore, the smell of saltwater, all of it. It seems like the perfect grave.

You load the pockets of your harem pants with heavy rocks, and you begin to walk into the ocean. The water laps over your ankles, then your knees, then your hips, just getting deeper and deeper the further you walk. After a while, it's too difficult to keep walking on the sandy seafloor, so you dive, not intending to ever surface.

The problem is that reflexes are a powerful thing, and so is panic. You disregard the urge to surface at first, letting the stones weigh you down, letting yourself sink, but it's only a matter of time before instinct takes over. 

_ You  _ might want to die, but your body doesn't. (Not anymore, at least.) You begin to claw your way upwards, but the rocks are too heavy. You can't get up. You're freaking out, and in your panic and desperation, you practically rip your pants off, allowing you to move freely. Your head breaks the surface, and you gasp loudly. 

_ Another failure.  _

You manage to get yourself back to your dorm this time, still soaking, still clad in just a tank top and underpants. Unfortunately, your roommate is very perceptive--she seems to figure out what you did all too fast, once you explain that no, it was not, in fact, a sorority initiation thing. 

The next day, you're in her car on the way to the psychiatric hospital upstate, protesting all the while.

\---

The week you spend in the psych facility is a dissociated blur, but you remember what happened next all too clearly.

Your RA spoke to you when you returned, and was insistent that you seek professional help. After some argument, you reluctantly agreed--it was just the path of least resistance. She refers you to a newly-formed therapy group, mediated by a woman named Sapphire Carlson, and you end up going, simply because you have nothing better to do that day.

You must say, though, that you were  _ not  _ expecting Amethyst to be here. From the look on her face, she wasn't expecting you either.

_ Shit. So I guess this is happening. _

_ \--- _

At first, things go shockingly okay. Amethyst doesn't make too many unnecessary jabs at you, and that tiny freshman, Peridot, is honestly kind of precious. You broke up with Jasper, and you haven't seen her in weeks.

Until, of course, you do see her, and you curse under your breath. Had you known she worked at this Sears, you would've gone to literally any other store.

And yet you end up running into her, in a manner that you'll always swear was accidental, and that you'll always  _ know  _ was completely on purpose. You're hooked on her, like a fucking crack addict, and the worst part might just be that she's very much the same. 

You love her, and you hate her. You want to kiss her,  _ fuck  _ her, and then choke the life out of her. It's complicated, basically.

When you get home with the mini-fridge she managed to sell you on, your roommate looks up at you, and the shame you feel for falling back into your old habits is so painful that you nearly drop the new fridge.

Of course you hate yourself, and of course you've been suicidal for ages. How could anyone who sucks as much as you  _ not  _ be? For that matter, if the world itself isn't that much better, what's the point? 

You don't tell her about the encounter. But you do tell the group a few weeks later, when you and Jasper have gotten together for the millionth time, that you just ran into her at the store. 

(You leave out the part about fucking her senseless in the employee bathroom.) 

\---

For nearly two years after leaving her yet again, you're on your best behavior. You begin throwing yourself into your art; you keep your distance from Jasper, for the most part, save for a few casual hookups when you're too lonely and horny to cope.

A simple disagreement during a hookup is enough, though. It's enough to spark another fit of rage in you, and that just makes  _ her  _ pissed. 

The fight doesn't get physical this time, not at first, but the barbs you sling at each other hurt more than any punch could. That being said, you're winning, you'd say, at least until she says it. 

“You,” she tells you, “are a fucking  _ cancer _ on the world.”

You just sit in shock for a long moment. She went there, she fucking  _ went there _ , and how  _ dare  _ she mock you? Your suffering? What gives her the right?

You punch her in the face, and you run back to your dorm. 

It's amazing, really, how little it takes to push you over the edge. Almost nothing, really. If you were capable of any form of joy in this moment, you might even find it kind of funny.

You swallow the pills, and you climb into bed and wait.

\---

Your roomie is the one who saves you this time, and you're enraged with her over it. You're extremely tempted to ask your RA if you can switch dorms, in fact. 

But for now you're in the hospital’s psych ward, a few days after the fact, sitting across from a girl who just arrived--a tall girl about your age, with red hair and a large, beakish nose. She's frightfully pale and thin, and if it weren't for the obvious indicators that she just got out of the hospital proper, you might wonder if she was in here for an eating disorder or something. Hell, maybe she is. 

You learn otherwise fairly quickly. Pearl is arguably one of the most blatantly  _ sad  _ people you've ever met, and given the fact that  _ you _ exist, that's saying quite a lot.

You're not feeling talkative. You realize that you need to start actually reaching out if you want attention,  _ affection _ , but it's so hard when you know that you're a horrible person that no one truly likes. Not even  _ her. _

You learn a bit about her without really meaning to. She's cagey about her reasons for attempting, but she reveals that she lives with a friend and her mothers, and you can't help but notice that one is named Sapphire, although you're sure it's just a strange coincidence. When you offhandedly mention an ex-girlfriend--Jasper, of course--she breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just afraid of being, uh, judged for who I am.” 

“Huh, you're gay too?”

“Yeah. That's the whole reason I'm living with Garnet and her moms, actually--I was kicked out at 17 over it.” 

“Damn. Sucky.”

“That's...certainly one way of putting it, yes.”

“I'm not even convinced good parents  _ exist. _ ”

“I mean, Garnet’s moms are lovely, but…” She trails off, staring at the ceiling. “I don't know. I’d rather talk about anything else.”

And thus, you spend the majority of the afternoon silently sketching, while Pearl reads some cheesy-looking science fiction novel. 

\---

When you next go to therapy, she's there, and you realize that the Sapphire she lives with is, in fact, the one you see every Tuesday. 

You also realize that you kind of envy Pearl. Not her position, of course, but her ability to express her sadness  _ outwardly.  _ She cries openly, in a way you're not sure you ever could. 

Sadness is hard. It's easier to be angry and apathetic. It's easier to alienate everyone. It's your armor, hiding the stupidly soft parts of your mind, the parts that are still stuck as a young teenager dying of cancer, and you can't just cast it off. No. You can't.

(But  _ God _ , you'd like to one day.)

**Author's Note:**

> bitch


End file.
